The Blade in the Crowd
His face obscured by the New York Times, the man in the white hooded sweatshirt sat patiently, his body a perfect imitation of relaxation and disinterest with the world around him. In reality, the man in the white hood's eyes never rested upon the publication in his hand but peered out over it, flickering between his watch and the crowd that bustled and pulsed through Grand Central Station, a sea of muted colors and vacant expressions.
The man in the white hood's watch beeped once, and his eyes glanced at it to confirm its message. He took a deep breath: any second now. His body tensed as he looked past the crowd at the entryway through which The Target would pass at any moment. He was a statue upon the bench for several minutes, his entire focus on this subject. Before long The Target appeared, standing out with his shock of orange, wispy hair in the sea of grays and blacks.
The man in the white hood folded his newspaper, stood up fluidly and calmly, and began walking through the crowd, the paper tucked under is left arm. He passed through the throng of people easily, easing through every space between commuters and gently maneuvering himself in a path directly in front of The Target. Though his heart beat faster with every step, his gait and breathing remained calm and measured, his face as blank and distant as those around him. Through careful maneuvering, the man in the white hood positioned himself in the direct path of the target. The image of The Target was as clear to the man in the white hood with his eyes closed as open; he had spent a lot of time observing The Target, memorizing his every detail, from his wispy, carrot colored hair to the lines on his face to the charcoal suits and leather briefcase he seemed to favor. As the target drew closer, the man in the wide hood flexed his right hand without conscience thought. Soon only a few people separated them. And then none.
What occurred next took place in less than two seconds. As The Target drew near, the man in the white hood's left hand drew back the sleeve on his right arm, while his right hand flicked upwards fluidly. With a -snick- that was inaudible to all but the man in the white hood, a small, thin blade flicked out cleanly. The man in white then took a quick step toward the target, their faces perfect reflections in their passivity. With a jerk of his arm the blade was buried to the man in the white hood's wrist on the right side of The Targets body. Angled with surgical precision, it sliced into The Target's liver, through the heptic artery and finished by piercing the right lung. The Target gave a short gasp, his body reacting to the pain before his mind. To an outsider, it looked as if one of the men had merely stumbled into the other.
With another flick of the wrist, the blade withdrew to its hiding place, the left hand pulled down the sleeve once again, and the newspaper was switched to the right hand. With a fluid movement, the man in the white hood stepped to the side and around the target, and melted back into the crowd. The Target stood there stupidly, drawing short ragged breaths, his mind still not registering what had happened. The Target's hands instinctively found the wound and covered it, unintentionally hiding the blossoming crimson stain on his white shirt from view. It was several seconds before The Target looked down, his vision becoming unfocused, to find his hands and shirt slick with what looked like red dye. It was several more before his vision went black and he collapsed to the floor. A few seconds later, and someone screamed and called for help. By this time the man in the white hood was across the station, the exit within sight.
As the man in white approached the glass doors and streaming sunlight, security ran past him, yammering into their radios and calling for an ambulance, paying him no attention. As he stepped out the front doors, a smile played across his scarred lips.